"Francis Bacon!" he exclaimed. "What! Not the one as wrote Shakespeare?"
"Shakespeare—Shakespeare!" said the stranger, in a slow, puzzled tone. "I do admit having made some humble essays in writing—certain modest commentaries upon human motives and relations—but, in good sooth, the title you have named, Master Droop, is unknown to me. Shakespeare—Shakespeare. Pray, sir, is it a homily or an essay?"
"Why, ye see, et's—as fur's I know it's a man—a sorter poet or genius or play-writin' man," said Droop, somewhat confused.
"A man—a poet—a genius?" Bacon repeated, gravely. "Then, prithee, friend, how meant you in saying you thought me him who had written Shakespeare? Can a man—a poet—be written?"
"Nay—verily—in good sooth—marry, no!" stuttered Droop. "What they mean is thet 'twas you wrote the things Shakespeare put his name to—you did, didn't you?"
"Ahem!" said the stranger, with dubious slowness. "A poet—a genius, you say? And I understand that I am reputed to have been the true author of—eh?"
"Yes, indeed—yea—la!" exclaimed Droop, now sadly confused.
"Might I ask the name of some work imputed to me, and which this—this Shake—eh——"
"Shakespeare."
"Ay, this Shakespeare hath impudently claimed for his own credit and reputation?"